


In Scattered Lines of Poetry

by Buffintruder



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day 2018, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, Magic, Mentions of alcohol, Mind Control, Poetry, in that no major canon events are changed not that this could realistically happen within canon, though i did twist a couple tiny details because it flowed better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buffintruder/pseuds/Buffintruder
Summary: Words have power. This is especially true for Jehan Prouvaire.





	In Scattered Lines of Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Pyramid by Jason Webley.  
> All the poems in this were originally written in English, and a few of them were written after 1832, so this isn't completely realistic or anything, but historical accuracy is not really the point of this fic

All words have power. This is especially true for Jehan Prouvaire.

 

From early childhood, when he was first tutored in the use of language and the great works of those who shape it to their whim, Jehan has been enamoured with poetry. Words ring truer and provoke more thought when set in verse, and he is constantly astounded by the beauty and emotion that a person can produce by putting together syllables in certain ways.

 

As part of Jehan’s education, he is required to memorize and recite poems, but he doesn’t stop with what is assigned to him. He reads poetry for fun, thinking about the patterns of sounds and the meanings they contain. He commits some poems to memory because they are too lovely to let go; others he reads so many times that his brain absorbs the words by accident and keeps them there for longer than he intended.

 

While his love of words is not typical for boys his age, and Jehan is often mocked by his peers, it does not initially fall outside the realm of what is considered reasonable. He realizes soon enough, however, that there is more to his connection with poetry than simple appreciation.

 

Jehan is twelve, and the summer night is too beautiful for him to be cooped up inside. The lingering heat keeps him restless, and he is unable to fall asleep, despite his best efforts. He spends hours rolling from one side of his bed to the other, hoping for exhaustion to finally overtake him, but to no avail. Eventually he gives up trying to sleep and gives in to the urge drawing him outside.

 

Tiptoeing down the stairs and through the halls of his parents’ house, he creeps outside without attracting notice from any of the adults. In the darkness, the gardens surrounding the house feel entirely different, even though they are physically familiar. Jehan can’t imagine playing games or picking flowers in this place where everything is now so still and solemn despite the rustling of the wind.

 

Above him, the sky shimmers with a thousand sparks of light, like flowers in a far off field, and he does not feel as if he is alone. The universe is too full for solitude to be a real concept. Jehan is entranced by the wonderful chaos above. He has seen stars many times before, but they have never seemed quite as wild and beautiful as they do now.

 

The stars, the constant hum of insects, and the unreality of the world around him fill Jehan with an awe that he does not know how to express in any other way than through somebody else’s words.

 

 _“O Star (the fairest one in sight),”_ he whispers for the universe to hear, recalling a poem that he learned only a few days before. There is one star in particular that he fixes his gaze upon. He does not know its name or what constellation it belongs to, but it shines too cheerfully to ignore.

_“We grant your loftiness the right_

_To some obscurity of cloud --_

_It will not do to say of night,_

_Since dark is what brings out your light._

_Some mystery becomes the proud._

_But to be wholly taciturn_

_In your reserve is not allowed.”_

 

The words feel powerful in the darkness beneath this vibrant sky in a way that they never could when read from books in a dusty classroom while the sun still shines brightly outside. This is the natural habitat of the poem, the setting that it _should_ be read in. With each word that spills out into the night, the poem comes to life, and Jehan feels as if he is in tune with the universe itself and the history of humans that have looked up at the sky.

 

Bolstered by this harmony, he pours his soul into what he says more deeply and sincerely than he has ever done in his entire life. He speaks, and the world pauses to listen.

_“Say something to us we can learn_

_By heart and when alone repeat._

_Say something! And it says ‘I burn,’”_ Jehan continues, raising his voice out of a whisper so that he can be heard over the buzz of the night and the distance of space.

 

And to his surprise, he hears a voice like a song echo his words. **“I burn,”** the star whispers back.

 

Jehan feels the response in his mind and heart as much as with his ears, and he knows that it is as real as his own self. The universe responded to him, shaping itself to fit the words he spoke.

 

The thought should be frightening or earth-shattering, but Jehan is young and very tired, so all he thinks is that perhaps instead of finishing the poem and seeing what else he might cause, he should go back to his room and attempt to sleep again.

 

...

 

Jehan’s heart contains far more poet than scientist. So when he wakes up the next morning with the soul-deep certainty that what happened the previous night was not a dream, he does not question it much.

 

He makes no attempt to repeat the experience or recapture the power he used. Once was more than enough times to command the universe, and he is a little scared to try it again. He does not want to cause something terrible that he cannot undo or discover that none of it was ever real.

 

He reads and recites poetry as always (he even starts to write his own), but now he always wonders if he can ever find his way back into that peaceful state of being completely in sync with the universe, if he can place that power behind his words again and make them come true.

 

Jehan is always careful not to go any further than wondering.

 

...

 

It is summer again, many years later, and Jehan has recently left for university in Paris.

 

In a frighteningly short amount of time, Jehan integrates himself into a group of friends, a newly-formed club created with the intention of bettering society and the human race. He feels more at home there with them than he ever thought he could in such a large and exciting city.

 

He spends his days in classes, his nights writing, and his evenings either going out with friends or planning revolution (which are often the same thing these days). For once, he is surrounded by like-minded people who see the needless pain and suffering of the world, and instead of brushing it off as someone else’s concern, they strive to change it.

 

Until recently, Jehan never knew quite how empowering it could be to work with others who are just as passionate about his goals and ideals as he is. Despite the short amount of time that he has known them, Jehan already loves their dedication and humor and energy and everything else about them.

 

His friends occupy a vast range of interests and personalities, but one of them is an outlier even amongst this varied group. Grantaire does not care much for Les Amis’ ideals or politics, and he rarely contributes to their activities. Truthfully, Jehan is uncertain why he remains with them, and at first he is hesitant around Grantaire.

 

However, when he takes the time to listen, Jehan finds that even though Grantaire is harsh and annoying and oftentimes hurtful, he can also be very interesting and funny. Every once in a while, a gentler side of Grantaire pokes its head out from under the layers of cynicism he normally wraps it in. After a few weeks, Jehan starts to warm up to him.

 

Currently, Grantaire isn’t saying anything clever or infuriating. He sits in the corner of the backroom of the Café Musain with a bottle of wine in his hand and several more on the table in front of him. He is being oddly quiet and appears far more despondent than usual. Jehan’s heart aches at the mere sight of the sorry state Grantaire is in, so he pushes away his shyness and pulls out a chair next to him.

 

“You look worse off than normal, my friend,” Jehan says gently. He expects Grantaire to brush off the comment and try to pretend that things aren’t so bad, but instead he sighs in agreement.

 

“As worse as winter is from summer,” Grantaire replies, taking another swig from his bottle. “But in this case, the summer is a dry and scorching one, and the winter is even worse in its cruelty. My life, already like something one might find in a sewer, has rotted further.”

 

Jehan frowns. Grantaire seems to be attempting his usual flowery and convoluted manner of speaking, but he lacks the eloquence he normally does. Whatever is hurting Grantaire has dampened half of his defining personality.

 

Even though he does not care strongly for Grantaire, seeing him so reduced makes Jehan want to do anything he possibly can to make it better for him. Something protective awakens in him, and Jehan feels as if he would set the world on fire if it would mean Grantaire would never feel this bad again. He is certain that no one deserves this level of misery.

 

All he can do now is to softly ask, “What’s wrong?”

 

Grantaire scoffs. “What isn’t wrong? Children starve in the streets while the king feasts in a palace. People have no say in the rules that command their lives. And there are all the other problems that you and the others keep trying to fix. I’m sure you could list them off better than I.”

 

Jehan can recognize deflection when he sees it. “That isn’t what is bothering you right now.”

 

“The number of things that currently bother me exceed the grains of sand on a very large beach,” Grantaire snipes. He studies the bottle still in his hand, twisting it around contemplatively. “If I drink enough of this, I suppose that either I shall forget my troubles or die. Either way, they shall no longer concern me.”

 

A jolt of worry strikes Jehan. He isn’t certain how serious Grantaire is. “I’m sure there are better ways of handling your troubles than that. Can I help ease their weight?”

 

“Why do you care?” Grantaire demands fiercely, startling Jehan with his sudden belligerence. But the glare fades quickly, and Grantaire slumps down a little. “I don’t even belong here. I don’t fight for the same ideals or hold the same beliefs as the rest of you. I don’t fight for _anything_ , and isn’t that what frustrates you the most? If I held a differing opinion, at least that would be something you could accept, but I don’t even have that.”

 

This seems a bit tangential to Jehan, and he doesn’t know if it relates to whatever is upsetting Grantaire or not, so he focuses on what he can respond to. “You’re still our friend. You’re _my_ friend, and I care what happens to you,” he says.

 

Grantaire snorts and raises a skeptical eyebrow before looking back down at his bottle.

 

Jehan just wants to convince Grantaire that he can trust him if he wants, that sharing his emotions won’t make him weak or ruin their friendship. Grantaire looks so miserable that Jehan can physically feel it, and he needs to at least try to help. He says the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be lines from a poem he read earlier that week.

_“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine._

_Meanwhile the world goes on.”_

 

It has been so long since that night beneath the stars that Jehan does not even recognize the same power behind his quote until after he finishes. These words have a weight to them that most words never do.

 

Grantaire glances up to meet Jehan’s eyes. There is no sullen mask anymore, just open vulnerability. “The world goes on?” he repeats.

 

“Yes,” Jehan says, hoping desperately that he is not accidentally forcing his friend to do something he would not otherwise do. “You can trust me with your feelings and struggles, if that is what you wish to do, and the world will not end. Not your world, nor mine, nor the actual one.”

 

Grantaire studies him for a moment before he speaks. “Our divine leader has finally realized that I truly have nothing to contribute to this group, and that my uselessness shall not change any time soon,” he says bitterly, looking back down at the table. “He sees me for the hinderance I am, and he despises me for it.”

 

“Enjolras?” Jehan asks, feeling a little lost. Les Amis de l’ABC do not have an official leader, but there are few other people that Grantaire could be referring too.

 

“I knew it would happen,” Grantaire continues, and Jehan takes that as confirmation. “I knew I would crack his belief in me eventually.”

 

“Foreknowledge does not necessarily reduce the pain,” Jehan says, hoping that he sounds sympathetic rather than pitying.

 

Grantaire snorts. “There is no need to tell _me_ that. I think he wishes me to leave, now that he knows I won’t be swayed to his cause.”

 

“He can’t make that decision by himself,” Jehan says firmly. He might not be able to successfully sooth Grantaire’s heart after being rejected and dismissed by Enjolras, but he can at least reassure Grantaire that he has a place in their group. “You’re one of us now, and we want you to stay.”

 

“But is there any point in remaining here, if he wants me gone?” Grantaire mutters.

 

“If you think that it would be a waste of time, I shall not persuade you to stay,” Jehan says. “But I meant it when I said you were our friend.”

 

Grantaire straightens ever so slightly, looking offended. “Of course I don’t think I waste my time with you! You’re the only people who have ever tried to make me feel welcome, even after knowing me for longer than a week. I didn't know hope and happiness could still exist until you came along.” He breaks off from his indignation with a muffled sob, smiling joylessly before raising his bottle up to take a long drink out of it. “Now I no longer have a place here, with your leader turned against me. The world becomes cold and uncaring once more.”

 

Jehan refuses to let that stand. Grantaire radiates hopelessness so strongly that it makes Jehan want to give up on the universe, but the thought of simply allowing Grantaire to feel so despairing is an even more powerful motivator, so he says with all the truth he can muster,

_“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,_

_the world still offers itself to your imagination,_

_calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—_

_over and over announcing your place in the family of things.”_

You belong; you have something worth living for, Jehan thinks, trying to project that into his words.

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Grantaire says, but he isn’t being sarcastic. He sounds genuinely a little more optimistic, and that would be wonderful if it didn’t also mean that Jehan had unnaturally changed Grantaire’s emotions. He feels the echo of what he said reverberating in their minds like the ripples after a stone is dropped into a pond.

 

Words affect people, especially if said properly, so maybe Jehan is not unethically controlling his friend’s mind anymore than anybody saying anything does. He does not feel entirely convinced of this fact.

 

“I told you my despair, so what’s yours?” Grantaire asks.

 

Jehan had not been planning on telling Grantaire much of anything when he first said the line, but he finds himself unable to resist stammering his way through some complaints.

 

Whatever power Jehan has, at least he is just as controlled by it as anyone else is.

 

...

 

After this incident, Jehan feels more curious about what exactly he is capable of. Now that it has happened a second time, he knows his magic (for he has no better way to refer to the effects his poetry sometimes causes) is not a dream or something that will only work once.

 

He tries to make it happen again, without success.

 

Combeferre and Jehan begin writing a speech one evening, but it takes them longer to finish than they expect. By the time they are done, the sun has long since set, so Combeferre invites Jehan to stay the night.

 

There is a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor that Jehan has claimed for his own, and he lies curled up within it. The candle that Combeferre is using to let himself read flickers softly in a random yet still comfortingly familiar pattern. Jehan watches the shift of light and shadow on the wall as he thinks.

 

“Sleep, love sleep,

The night winds sigh,

In soft lullaby,” Jehan says, trying to push the words into becoming reality.

 

Combeferre looks up from his book, clearly still not asleep. Jehan listens carefully, but he does not hear even a breeze outside. “Is that a poem?”

 

“Yes,” Jehan replies, hoping that Combeferre already thinks him odd enough that this is not suspicious. “It’s such a peaceful night.”

 

“Indeed,” Combeferre says, gazing out the window to the cloudy skies.

 

Jehan wonders why this time his words do nothing, even though he wanted them to, even though he tried to make them be real. Both of them are already quite tired; making them fall asleep should have been far easier than making a star speak. Perhaps this is something he cannot force. He relaxes, and lets the words of the poem drift through his mind, rather than being pushed through it.

“Sleep, love sleep,

The pale moon looks down

On the valley around.”

 

“Those lines are not quite as accurate,” Combeferre observes, still fully awake, much to Jehan’s disappointment. “The moon is not out tonight.”

 

Jehan looks out at the sky, but it is still just as covered by clouds as it was before. He sighs quietly; he had already known it would be so. When he was reciting the lines, they were merely sounds falling out of his mouth and nothing more. There had been no power behind them.

 

Though he still has little idea why sometimes the poetry he says becomes real, Jehan now knows magic is not something he can do as simply as wanting it to happen. He resolves to recite poetry that fits whatever situation he is in more often, just in case he can do magic again.

 

...

 

The sunlight sinks into Jehan’s skin, warming him down to the very core and filling him with a wonderful feeling of absolute contentedness. Convincing Les Amis to meet in the park rather than in their usual room at the Musain was possibly the best thing Bahorel has ever done, even considering all of his helpful contributions.

 

The leaves have turned red and yellow, and soft crunching below accompanies the group as they walk along the path. This could be the last warm and sunny day until next spring, so Jehan is determined to enjoy it to the fullest extent.

 

It turns out to be a very easy goal to achieve.

 

Serious thoughts of politics seem to have briefly fled all of their minds, even Enjolras’, and their discussions are as light as the winged maple seeds floating down around them with every gust of wind.

 

Joly and Bossuet have dragged Grantaire and Courfeyrac into a ‘contest of wit’ that appears to largely consist of making plant-related puns. Bahorel is retelling one of his funnier stories for Enjolras who was gone the first time Bahorel told it, and Jehan listens to Feuilly and Combeferre debate which factors most strongly cause people to behave in a certain manner.

 

Today is a day of laughter and peace, and Jehan feels completely at home with this group of friends. Les Amis has been growing and shifting since the day Jehan joined, but recently, it seems to have settled to consist of nine people that make up the core of the organization.

 

Spending time with this group has been slightly awkward since Jehan joined because adjusting to new people always is. That strangeness largely vanished as they became more comfortable around each other, but this is the first time that Jehan sees them all as one solid and unified group. They were The Friends before, but now they are also _friends_ , and it shows clearly right now in the way they joke with each other and even in the way they argue.

 

Courfeyrac pulls away from Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, making a dramatically wounded face as he turns towards Jehan. “I never thought I would see the day where I would lose such a challenge! These scoundrels shall never let me forget my defeat, I am sure.”

 

“At least not until he pays what he bet us,” Bossuet says cheerfully, a large grin across his face.

 

“Well, _I_ still might tease you, Monsieur ‘Champion of Wordplay’,” Grantaire says, smirking. “You certainly did not live up to your boasts.”

 

Joly laughs at them, and even Jehan cannot hide a smile.

 

“If you join me, I will not mock you like those cruel friends of yours,” Jehan says. Courfeyrac sends him an exaggerated look of relief, causing him to blush.

 

“They are former friends now,” Courfeyrac mutters, not attempting in the slightest to sound sincere. He links arm with Jehan’s. “You are far better company.”

 

“Boo!” Joly cries. “Leave us to sulk, you loser!”

 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes as Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire turn back to continue their game. “You appear especially happy today, Jehan.”

 

“What is there not to be pleased about?” Jehan asks, gesturing at the people he has already come to love. “The sun is bright, and our friends are in good-spirits.”

 

“I would find it harder to feel _un_ happy in these circumstances,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Who could ask for more than this?”

 

Their conversation reminds Jehan of a poem he read once a long time before, so he repeats it, not expecting much to come out of it.

_“The blaze of fraternity kindles most sweet,_

_There’s nothing more pleasing in life.”_

 

This time, Jehan feels the power behind his words flowing through his bonds to his friends before he reaches the end of the first line. He makes no effort to stop though, because he doubts this will have ill-effect. Indeed, after it is said, the mood of the group brightens even more.

 

Next to him, Courfeyrac grins, affectionately squeezing his arm. Jehan spots Enjolras break out into a genuine smile, and on the other side of their group, Grantaire looks more content than Jehan has ever seen him before. If this magic bring his friends such joy, it clearly has beneficial uses, and Jehan does not regret using it.

 

Questions of ethics can come later, he decides. For now, he enjoys the beautiful day and the joy of his friends.

 

...

 

His magic becomes easier to use, or perhaps he grows better at recognizing situations where he can use it. It helps that he now speaks situationally-appropriate poetry more often than he would have otherwise. Those around him become accustomed to hearing him spout poetry when most people would not, accepting it as part of his quirkiness.

 

Not every instance results in magic, and there are many times where Jehan actively does not want his words to become real. Poetry is a good outlet for what he feels, especially now that he is in the habit of reciting it, but just because it fits the mood or situation does not mean that Jehan wants to magically reinforce the poem’s truth.

 

Rather than being an unexpected and strange occurance, his magic is now a helpful and semi-reliable tool. Jehan tries to avoid using magic to control people, but it is not an unbroken rule.

 

The first time he intentionally uses magic to change the actions of another person happens when he returns home for Christmas.

 

Jehan is usually on decent terms with his parents, but they do not approve of the direction of his life. He is smart, they say. He should be studying to be a doctor or a lawyer, or _anything_ more more useful than literature. The languages he learns should be ones used by countries that currently have business with France, not languages that long-dead poets wrote in.

 

Now that he is in university, their displeasure has only grown.

 

His father begins another of these lectures, but Jehan forcibly tunes him out, desperately casting his mind through poems he has read recently in hopes of finding some way to stop this tirade. It hurts to have his parents disapprove so clearly of the thing he loves doing more than anything, and Jehan wants nothing more than to not have to hear this anymore.

 

Everything his father is saying has been said too many times to count, and it won’t change Jehan’s mind now. He might as well save them both the trouble.

 

His father has moved on to criticize Romantics and their idealization of nature (“The future lies in society and industrialism, not trees and emotions!”). His words stab Jehan like knives through the bottom of a boat, filling him up and pulling him under at the same time. Jehan is drowning, even though he does not need his father’s approval to find his own path in life, even though he still believes in the Romantics just as strongly as before, even though he knew beforehand that his father had not changed his mind since they last spoke.

 

Jehan focuses his mind—he just needs a few words to say in response—and draws out a half-forgotten memory from his childhood. He drowns out his father, running through the words to ensure that he remembers it all properly.

 

Then he takes a breath and opens his mind.

 

He lets go of his own frustration and hurt, filling himself with the anger and derisiveness that his father feels. In the past months, he has figured out that he must bring himself emotionally near the subject of his magic for it to work. It seems like a violation of his ideals to let his father’s horrible opinions in, even if it is just for a moment, but he releases even that betrayal.

 

Jehan understands why his father is saying what he is saying, but he also knows that his father is wrong. Focusing solely on these two things, he waits for his father to come to a break in his rant and says,

_“Think me not unkind and rude_

_That I walk alone in grove and glen;_

_I go to the god of the wood_

_To fetch his word to men.”_

 

His father freezes, his eyebrows coming together in brief confusion. Then he says, “Fine. I suppose this conversation has gone on long enough. We can discuss this further tomorrow.”

 

Releasing a sigh of relief, Jehan takes the opportunity to return to his room where he will not have to face any of his family members until the next morning. He knows his poem does not fit the situation perfectly, being relevant to his argument mostly through metaphor, but he hopes it will work well enough that he can visit his home again in the future without feeling like he is being torn to shreds.

 

...

 

Jehan makes a habit of walking outside every evening that the weather allows him to. Watching the buildings and people he passes clears his mind of any long-lasting thought, and after his walk, he finds that it is easier to focus and that ideas flow more freely than they had before.

 

His walks also provide him the opportunity to remind himself of the world outside of textbooks and speeches and the noisy backrooms of cafés. The things he comes across—the tired old woman walking home from work, the first buds sprouting on the plant in a window box, the warm scent wafting out of the bakery every day, the giggles and screeches of children playing—these are what he fights for, and Jehan does not want to grow so lost in himself that he forgets that.

 

It is easy in the spring to love the city around him, but he also misses the open fields and deep forests of home.

 

Recently his walks have taken on a more nostalgic tone, as they did the first year he was here, but Jehan knows that as he builds more memories here in Paris over the following years, he will miss the countryside and the house of his parents less. This is his second spring here, and already he has many happy memories to combat the homesickness.

 

As the meeting at the Musain finishes, Jehan intends to take a long, meandering route to his apartment, but his plans are interrupted.

 

Bossuet approaches him after Les Amis start dispersing, some heading off, others lingering to chat. “May I accompany you home?” he asks.

 

Jehan enjoys having this time to himself, but sometimes the company of friends is better than being alone, and Bossuet would not have asked unless he had a point to his inquiry. He smiles brightly at his friend, and says, “Of course!”

 

“Thank you,” Bossuet replies. His shoulders untense slightly, as if he was afraid Jehan would refuse.

 

“The weather—well, it’s a lovely evening,” Jehan says as he walks out the door. “Do you mind if I take a less-than-direct route?”

 

“It’s perfectly fine,” Bossuet says. “I didn’t intend on asking you to let me stay over tonight, only to share your company for a time. And perhaps some words of advice.”

 

So that is the reason Bossuet must have asked to walk with him. “What is on your mind, my friend?” Jehan asks, hoping to get straight to the matter.

 

By now, they have left the street the Musain is on. Though not yet dark, it is late enough that few people are out. It is the closest thing to privacy they could have outside.

 

“Well...” Bossuet nervously rubs the side of his head with one hand. “I have some concerns regarding romance, and you are the best source of insight I know.”

 

“Me?!” Jehan demands, astonished. He has had relatively little experience in that area. Although he knows more about capital-R Romance than all the other Amis combined, and he could offer poetry to make even the most stone-hearted swoon, he knows very little about practically handling romance.

 

“Yes,” Bossuet says, smiling sheepishly. “Courfeyrac knows a lot, but he is not... his methods of seduction differ greatly from mine. Bahorel would be subtler, but mine is not a problem that can be solved with a proper pair of pants. Feuilly is too busy, Grantaire is a disaster, and Enjolras does not care much for love. Combeferre would offer me something clever and practical, but you have an understanding of emotion that rivals the rest of our group.”

 

Jehan blushes at the compliment, smiling shyly at the ground to savor the warmth of Bossuet’s high regards before turning back to the subject at hand. “And Joly?”

 

Bossuet hesitates. “He... The matter of which I wish to speak of involves him.”

 

“I see,” Jehan says, starting to understand a bit of Bossuet’s nervousness. If his closest friend is entangled in whatever is going on in Bossuet’s love life, it must be serious. “And what exactly is this matter?”

 

“I must give you some context first,” Bossuet says. “Some time last year, I fell in love with a clever girl named Musichetta, and I even worked up the courage to reveal my admiration for her. By some strange turn of luck, she returned my affections and agreed to see me for awhile. However, it was not meant to be, and she left me to be with Joly.”

 

“What a tragedy!” Jehan finds it difficult to imagine such a tension existing between Joly and Bossuet; they have always been so close. “It must have been heartbreaking.”

 

But Bossuet shakes his head, dismissing Jehan’s concern. “This happened some months ago. They have both been extremely considerate of my feelings, and I wish them both well too much to truly feel devastated by this. I have never been made to feel left out or uncared for while they pursue their own romance.”

 

This makes more sense to Jehan than if Bossuet was complaining about his lover running off with his friend. Bossuet has never seemed disheartened by his bad luck, and he is far too kind to discourage someone else’s happiness, even if it comes at the cost of his own. But if Bossuet is truly content with the situation, he would have no reason to want to talk to Jehan about this. “Then why have you come for my advice?”

 

“There has been a slight complication to the arrangement I had been at peace with before,” Bossuet admits. “And I am not quite prepared to handle it.”

 

“What complication?” Jehan prods, after another moment of hesitation from Bossuet.

 

Bossuet looks up, glancing at the street around him before speaking. “I have come to the realization that, not only am I still in love with Musichetta, I am also in love with Joly. And I have reason to suspect there is a possibility that they both feel the same about me.”

 

Jehan blinks. This is certainly not the situation he was expecting to hear, but he takes it in stride. “That appears to be more hopeful then.” At least in this scenario there is a feasible solution that could make everyone happy and fully satisfied.

 

Bossuet lets out a shaky sigh. “You don’t find this at all unusual?”

 

“Unusual, yes,” Jehan says, trying to send warm thoughts of acceptance to Bossuet through sheer will power. “But not a reflection of poor moral character or anything of that sort.”

 

“That is a relief,” Bossuet says with a slight chuckle. “It would be difficult to obtain helpful advice from you if you did think that.”

 

“I would never condemn something so harmless,” Jehan promises.

 

“I appreciate that.”

 

Jehan briefly clasps Bossuet’s shoulder in reassurance. “Your current position does not seem so unfortunate if they return your affections.”

 

“If they do indeed return them,” Bossuet says, smiling ruefully. “I may be mistaken.”

 

“You said you suspected it. Why?” If Jehan hears Bossuet’s reasoning, he will be able to judge for himself if it is likely that Joly and Musichetta have feelings for Bossuet as well.

 

“At one point in time, they both did feel the same towards me,” Bossuet says. “There was clear potential for something between Joly and I a few years back that we both acknowledged. But we decided against doing anything about it. Neither of us were quite as free from society’s opinions on right and wrong back then, and starting something like that would lead to more internal conflict than either of us were quite ready for.”

 

Jehan can understand. He knows that although fighting other people is difficult, overcoming oneself is harder. “And Musichetta was your lover for a time,” he finishes.

 

“Yes,” Bossuet says. “I assumed that both of their feelings for me had faded, and I was satisfied enough with our current arrangement to not mind much.”

 

“But something must have made you think otherwise,” Jehan says.

 

He nods. “Recently, Joly and Musichetta have been inviting me on what might otherwise be considered romantic outings. We spend more time as the three of us than they spend alone with each other.” Bossuet sighs, adjusting the cuff on his sleeve. “I came to the realization that my being there had not much changed the nature of our outings. The only reason all of us are not already in a relationship is because we simply have not named it as such.”

 

“If that is the case, the solution seems simple,” Jehan says. “One of you must bring up the matter of the nature of your relationship to let your suspicions be either confirmed by all or denied.”

 

“And what if I’m wrong?” Bossuet demands. “These are my observations, and how can I know if they are not clouded by what I only wish to be true?”

 

“Unless you want me to come along on one of these outings with you, I cannot say for certain,” Jehan says, hoping that this is not what Bossuet is asking him for. He has no desire intrude in such a manner. “I have never met Musichetta, but I know that Joly holds you very dear. Even if he feels differently towards you, he would not do anything to try to hurt you.”

 

“True,” Bossuet says with a sigh. “Talking to him would be the easiest way to clear things up, if nothing else. I know this, but is scares me all the same.”

 

“I think you should speak with him,” Jehan says. He doesn’t want to push Bossuet into doing something he wouldn’t do otherwise though, so he adds, “But if you think the risk is too high, nothing has to be done immediately.”

 

But Bossuet shakes his head. “I have known I must do this for quite some time. I just needed someone to tell me to do it, so I can find the courage to act on the decision I have already made.”

 

“You know what you need to do,” Jehan says. “There is little more I can tell you.”

 

“Right.” Bossuet slumps a little, and Jehan knows he has not been the encouragement Bossuet hoped he would be. “Maybe I’ll talk to them tomorrow.” He takes a deep breath. “Yes, tomorrow. I shall do it then.”

 

“No!” Jehan interrupts. He knows about approaching difficult conversations, and having a set time to do it can be a good strategy, but not when it is something that has been bothering someone for as long as this has been on Bossuet’s mind. Jehan knows that Bossuet wants to do this, he _needs_ to do this, but this does not mean that his motivation to actually do it is strong. Talking to Jehan might have briefly inspired him, but it will not last. Bossuet will fall back into his hesitancy soon enough. Jehan needs to communicate that, but he does not have the right words, so he says,

_“Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,_

_Old Time is still a-flying;_

_And this same flower that smiles today,_

_Tomorrow will be dying.”_

 

“True,” Bossuet says, suddenly fidgety, shifting from foot to foot. “I _should_ do this now. Why wait for later when anything can change in the meantime?”

 

“Good luck,” Jehan says, as Bossuet rushes off, not quite sure whether he should be feeling guilty right now or not. He didn’t force Bossuet do anything. All he did was add some urgency to the situation, and Bossuet was fully able to decide what to do with that. Still, he thinks that maybe he should stop assuming how to handle his friends’ lives better than they do.

 

He does not know if he had meant to perform magic or not as he was saying the poem, and that scares him most of all.

 

...

 

Summer comes again and again and again, and this time frustration is building like the pressure behind a cannonball. The stuffy heat is the perfect temperature to cultivate irritation without tempering it. Everyday, the people’s anger grows, and the signs point so strongly to rebellion that Jehan wonders if there is a single person in this city that cannot see it coming.

 

Les Amis are busy this month, fighting to turn restless dissatisfaction into a productive force for change. Lamarque is dying, and they know enough about how these things work to see that revolution is on the horizon.

 

They start stockpiling guns and ammunition in preparation, and their speeches turn away from vague discussions of problems and future ideals to direct calls for action.

 

During one of these speeches, Jehan is among the audience, near the front as he usually is. He isn’t a good public speaker, so he never claims the stage. Even though he can shape words to evoke any sort of emotion on paper, in front of people he stutters and blushes and generally makes anybody looking at him feel nothing but pity.

 

It is important to keep an eye on the crowd, so while Enjolras and Courfeyrac stand in the front and give passionate speeches, the rest of them watch how those listening react. Today, the crowd is more full of scowls and agitated whispers than usual, reflecting the city’s general mood.

 

Jehan talks to the people who seem interested in their cause, persuading them to come to a few meetings and pass their messages to their family and friends. Not every person he meets is a perfect fit for Les Amis, but there are a hundred other similar organizations in Paris that might be more convenient or more in the interests of some people.

 

This doesn’t mean that everyone in the crowd agrees with what they stand for, and sometimes people’s anger is directed against them rather than with them.

 

“You are all fools!” someone shouts from somewhere behind Jehan. Everyone nearby falls quiet, so the rest of his words carry across the crowd. “Letting common, uneducated people decide the fate of nations? I have never heard of a more ridiculous idea! You would bring us all to ruin! Long live the king!”

 

Every single person is absolutely silent for a moment, but Jehan knows that it will not last long. With all the tensions running through the city, with this audience as riled up as they are, shouting and rioting will break out the instant people have properly processed the dissenter’s words. He feels the explosion looming ahead in the same way that some people can sense a storm coming.

 

Making a split-second decision, Jehan takes advantage of that short moment of silence to make himself be heard. He lets himself become a part of the crowd, becoming a part of their collective rage and desires, and puts all of their conviction into his words as he shouts,

_“Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—_

_The steel of freedom does not stain._

_From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,_

_We must take back our land again.”_

 

His voice rings clearly over the captivated crowd, echoing in the silent square and down the decades. Jehan has never tried to affect the minds of so many people all at once, but he knows without a doubt that every single person within hearing range will spend the rest of their lives fighting for the rights of the downtrodden.

 

That terrifies him more than anything he has ever done before. He had only meant to inspire them, not to make them live and die for a cause of his own choosing. Jehan hopes that he is mistaken, but his magic brings him more in touch with those he affects, and he felt the power in every syllable as it carried from ear to ear, so he knows he is not.

 

Combeferre pulls himself on the podium to speak. “We set up a republic before, and we can learn from our mistakes then to make a better one this time. As much as this man underestimates us, the common people, he brings a point. A successful republic _must_ have free, universal education to teach its citizens the knowledge and skills they need to master their own destinies.”

 

As he continues to advocate the necessities of a good education, the attention draws off of Jehan, and he feels like he can breathe again. Nothing has changed in this brief length of time—Jehan still grabbed the reins of the soul of every person in this crowd without their consent—but now that they aren’t all eerily silent, now that they aren’t staring at him, Jehan can almost pretend that it never happened.

 

But it did happen, and Jehan had no right to do it. He can never do it again.

 

Some power is not meant to be held by humans, imperfect and corruptible as they are. Jehan has grown lax in his grip on his own ethics, and he only now realizes that the more he has affected people’s minds the easier it became to do it again.

 

The thought that someday, he might not care at all for people’s personal boundaries and free will terrifies him. That is something he has to avoid above all.

 

Jehan stands there numbly for the rest of the rally, unable to pay attention to anything that is being said around him. Once it is over, he returns to the backroom of the Musain with the rest of Les Amis, but he does not talk to anyone.

 

The rest of them are excited, full of energy and hope, but Jehan feels nothing but guilt and self-reproach. He couldn’t feel more disconnected from them if he tried.

 

“More people than ever seemed interested in our cause during this rally!” Joly proclaims joyfully, a large grin stretching across his face. “We have a chance at success! The people are listening to us now!”

 

“When we revolt, we might actually win this time,” Feuilly says, and despite his calmer tone of voice, he is smiling uncontrollably too.

 

“No sticking another king on the throne at the last minute again!” Courfeyrac crows.

 

Before he knows what he is doing, Jehan runs out of the room, fighting to keep from vomiting. This wasn’t the people’s minds changing, it was him, changing their minds for them. His friends are so hopeful, but right now, it is built on a false foundation.

 

“No more poetry,” Jehan swears to himself, hearing his vow sink into the street around him. This promise is the only thing he can do at this point. He cannot undo the past or his magic; all he can do is prevent it from happening again. He will read and write poetry, but he swears to the same star he made speak to him all those years ago that he will _never_ say a single line out loud.

 

...

 

It does not take long for Jehan to break his promise, but he only does it once, and his magic only affects himself, so he thinks that it is mostly alright. Not that he has a lot of time afterwards to consider the moral implications of his actions.

 

Night has fallen on the barricades when the National Guard first attack. There is only chaos: guns firing, torches flashing, shouts and grunts intermingling with cries of pain. Jehan fights the best he can, but he isn’t physically strong or fierce. His only power lies in words, and he gave most of that up, not that he could be heard in this din even if he hadn’t.

 

Someone grabs his shoulder, and before he realizes what is happening, he is being pulled forward, toppling over the barricade into the midst of the National Guard. Startled, he blinks up at them.

 

“Take him to the back,” one of them commands. “Keep him alive. For now.”

 

Jehan tries to kick and punch, but his blows are useless against dozens of armed men. Their guns shouldn’t scare him—he will likely be killed no matter what he does—but they do, and Jehan hesitates enough for them to tie him up and drag him away from the barricade, away from his friends.

 

The adrenaline fades after a few endless minutes, and Jehan realizes that his heart is pounding uncontrollably, thudding throughout his entire body. He is so scared that he wants to throw up, and every moment he stays where he is feels like an eternity in hell. He can hear the fight still going on, but he can’t see the barricade anymore. Either side could be winning, and he has no idea. Not knowing kills him, but there is nothing he can do about that.

 

The noise suddenly vanishes, and Jehan realizes that the barricade has fallen silent. He still hears the sound of soldiers marching and discussing strategies around him, but the fighting has stopped.

 

He waits in the long silence, praying that this is a good sign, that it doesn’t mean all of his friends are dead. Some voices echo down the street, but he cannot make out the individual words.

 

A moment later, he hears dozens of footsteps retreating, coming back his way. He still does not know which side this signifies victory for. They march around the corner, and Jehan finally can see them. The guards do not look very triumphant, but it could just be wishful thinking.

 

Nearby, a couple of important looking guardsmen begin discussing something in quiet tones. Enough words drift into his hearing that Jehan knows they are deciding his fate, and from what Jehan catches, he has little reason to feel optimistic.

 

He is _terrified_ , more scared than any time he can remember. Death has never been so near or inevitable, and Jehan did not know until this exact moment how much he loves living. He likes to think that he has always been appreciative of the good moments of his life, and even the not-terrible moments. Somehow he never thought to appreciate the assumption that tomorrow would exist.

 

He knew there was a strong chance of dying, but it still seemed too impossible to actually happen. Jehan always thought that if he did die, he wouldn’t have the chance to contemplate it so thoroughly beforehand.

 

There are a million lasts that Jehan has experienced without even realizing it. His last sleep, his last drink, his last song, his last sunny day, his last words to each of his friends, and soon, his last heartbeat.

 

If he was not surrounded by enemies, he might have been crying. He knows he is strong, stronger than most people give him credit for, but right now he is about to die, and he is so very alone.

 

Jehan tries to think of the wonderful future that he is fighting for, the love and admiration he holds for his friends, and the heroes of history that he has always wanted to emulate. He tries to be brave and dignified, someone that the guards watching him here will remember for his steadfastness in the face of death. It is incredibly hard, and Jehan knows that he cannot keep himself together for much longer.

 

But there are other ways to be brave, and Jehan’s strength has always been in his words. He may be facing his end, but he will do it as himself. He is not a soldier, not stoic or stately. He is a poet, someone who feels every emotion, even the bad ones, and shares them with the world.

 

The important looking guard glances up at a few of the National Guardsmen nearby. “Execute the prisoner.”

 

Some of them look uncertainly at each other; one of them swallows with difficulty. A couple of them seem almost excited. Jehan is reminded that despite their uniform manner and clothing, they are individuals, some cruel, some kind. The ones who will kill him are _people_ , just as human as he is, and that might be the worst part of it all.

 

“Arms at the ready!” the leader says, and in unison the guardsmen lift their guns.

 

Jehan breathes in, and lets himself feel his fear and hope and determination. He has too many intense emotions to name inside, as if his heart knows that this will be the last time he can feel any of them and is trying to make up for everything he will not feel in the future.

_“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;_

_I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”_

 

Then he is no longer afraid, too full of love and hope for there to be any room left for anything else.

 

Jehan shouts his last words to the sky, and thinks of the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems in order of appearance:  
> Choose Something Like a Star, Robert Frost  
> Wild Geese, Mary Oliver  
> Serenade, Mary Weston Fordham  
> Like Brothers We Meet, George Moses Horton  
> The Apology, Ralph Waldo Emerson  
> To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time; Robert Herrick  
> Let America Be America Again, Langston Hughes  
> The Old Astronomer, Sarah Williams


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